The Experiment
by horsie890
Summary: Interrupted during a mission, Altair finds himself in an unfamiliar place - and a different time. I/II crossover, not really spoilers, just more confusing if you haven't played both games.
1. Chapter 1

The night was late, and the air smelled of revenge.

Altaïr was waiting. Carefully crouching low in the shadows, his eyes wandered in a distinct repeating pattern from one point to another as he glared at the city below. A lit window here, a cart of hay there, and a specific pile of rubble made up the three points waiting along the path his eyes continued to take, shifting from one to another in an obtuse triangle. Moonlight cascaded onto the rough surfaces of rooftops and gritty walls around him, but he took care to remain hidden in a mass of blue darkness. A single glint of light on his white robes would instantly alert someone to his presence, and it was an alarm he could not afford to raise.

With each pass of his eyes over the surveyed area, his jaw tightened just a little more. There were very few things that annoyed him more than impatience. He knew he should have acquired the ability to wait for hours with the greatest of ease by now, but it always made him feel useless. He was a man of bold action, not one to wait idly by for things to happen as they pleased. He wondered if he might have a better view of things if he climbed higher, and after a moment's deliberation, he chose to stand to his full height and leap up to a place on the tower. His fingers grasped handholds with precision that had become second nature. All the while, he focused on his peripheral vision, watching for any movements out of the ordinary that would require a quick change in his course of action.

He reached the narrow top of the tower and turned around to scour the city once more. Now he could see all the way out to the walls protecting the people from invasion. Altaïr sneered. The people. They cared little for the protection offered them by city guards and towering walls. The most they ever did was stand in his way or badger him for money. Even if they knew of the centuries-old war existing just beyond their walls, they would likely continue their dusty, miserable lives without a second thought.

He rearranged his position until he was perched comfortably on the narrow ledge that was still barely hidden in dark shadow. His pulse quickened as a flash of movement appeared out of the corner of his eye. There, moving with swift silence through the night, he saw a collection of glowing dots that left trails of light in the darkness, wandering through the maze of streets. Blindly, Altaïr thought, in comparison to his perfectly angled view of the world. He swiftly worked his way down the tower until he was at the same level as the rooftops, then dashed across the uneven surface to the point where he had seen the torches.

He could hear them now. Horses' hooves clattered against the stone, accompanied by a collection of footsteps and lowly spoken words. He crept to the end of the roof and flattened himself against it to remain hidden from sight and glanced over the edge. Firelight danced from the torches, lighting up the faces of several men, but he saw only one.

The traitor.

Altaïr did not know the man's name, but his face was all too familiar. He had betrayed the Brotherhood, given precious secrets to the Templars, and now was trying to run and hide like the coward he was. Altaïr fingered a throwing knife, debating which method would be best for disposing of such filth. His accuracy with throwing knives had always been passable at best, and the cover of night allowed him a much wider range of abilities. The sword was best used while on the ground, though, and the hidden blade was far too delicate to be used while jumping from such a great height. Apart from that, Altaïr had already decided that the worthless man did not deserve such a discreet, sudden death. He needed to bleed.

He drew a short dagger from its hiding place and leapt forward, sharp eyes intensely focused on the man. His form eclipsed the moonlight for one dark moment, and he spread his arms out, appearing similar to an oversized eagle as he soared toward his target. The knife glinted in his hand. He tucked forward into a ball and brought the knife down so it would satisfyingly sink into the man's emotionless heart. Altaïr caught a glimpse of pure fear in the man's expression as their eyes met for the briefest of moments.

There was a flash of sparkling blue that filled his eyes, and everything vanished.  


* * *

_ A/N: Well, here goes nothing. I'm sure this plot has been recycled a few (or more) times before, but I figured I'd take a crack at it since I haven't been on FF.N in ages and I've never written for this fandom before. Let me know what you think. Things get rolling next chapter._


	2. Chapter 2

Blinding sunlight flashed into his eyes. Altaïr found himself staring straight up for a moment, wondering how it was that the sun had appeared in the middle of the night. He heard a gasp of surprise and brought his gaze twisting back to the source. He expected to see the terrified face of his target looking back at him, but instead of looking upon the visage of a traitor, he was gazing at a woman. The handle of the short knife was sticking out from between her ribs. He simply stared at it, confusion slowing the time around him as his brain tried to process all that had just happened.

She screamed.

It turned into a weak hissing sound as her lungs filled with blood, and she soon collapsed. Altaïr scrambled to retrieve his knife from her fallen body as his instincts caught up with him. He soon found himself surrounded by guards and wasted no time in striking out with the knife, trying to buy enough time to retrieve his sword. After he easily felled two of the armor-clad men, Altaïr noticed that the others began to defend more than attack. He returned the knife to its holder and pulled the sword from its sheath, prepared to take out his new enemies one at a time.

Half-reclining against a wall and stretched out over the full length of a bench, Ezio inhaled a full breath of the air, allowing smells of baking bread and fresh fruit to play with his senses. A short smile worked its way onto his face as he allowed his fingers to dance across the strings of a mandolin. Soft breezes fluttered through the air and ruffled the loose shirt that lay partially open against his skin. A wave of sighs met his ears, released from the pretty lips of ten or so girls standing around him, and he smiled further. Leaves rustled overhead and caused dapples of light to shift over the cream-colored fabric of his hood.

He had heard the scream, just as everyone else in the market had heard it, but he paid it little heed. Probably just another scruffy child stealing a scrap of bread, he guessed. He glanced up as a smattering of guards ran past him to the source of the trouble, and after watching two of them fall to their deaths in quick succession just before a throng of people hid the battle from view, he decided it had to be something less ordinary.

"Interessante," he murmured to himself, letting his smile widen as he heard the gentle sighs of several girls on the verge of fainting at the sound of his voice. He carefully lay the mandolin aside and stood, calmly approaching the scene of the disturbance while pulling people out of his way. He tilted his head forward a little to make sure his face remained hidden as he surveyed the scene. He wondered if the guards had managed to corner a few thieves or some such thing. He instinctively placed a hand near the hilt of his sword, imagining any one of a thousand scenarios where he would need to jump into the middle of the scuffle and help his friends, if they were, in fact, his friends.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight of a single man warding off the guards with clearly practiced ease. He realized with a start that their outfits looked strikingly similar. The man's white robe was of a simpler design, but the crimson sash and set of knives attached to his waist were quite familiar. The stranger buried his sword in the final guard's heart with a sickening piercing sound, then as if he suddenly realized there was a crowd of onlookers around him, he shoved his way past a few people, throwing them to the ground, and darted up a wall. Ezio's eyes flashed. He wouldn't let the man get away.

Altaïr hadn't bothered to look back over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. He had been in similar situations so many times that he simply assumed no one would be conscious enough to follow him. When he heard footsteps resounding on the rooftops' tiles behind him, however, he quickly whipped his head around to see what fool could be chasing him. In the split second view he caught of his pursuer, he was able to determine three things. One, the person was a man; two, he was someone not much younger than Altaïr; three, he was an Assassin. His train of thought was stuck on the man's appearance. Never before had he seen a member of the Brotherhood dress so flamboyantly.

Ezio was surprised by the man's swiftness on the uneven surface of Venice's rooftops. A normal person would have tripped at least twice and given him enough time to catch up easily. He knew the city, though, and the ghost of a grin appeared on his face. If the man continued in the direction he was going, he would soon reach a gap too wide to jump across with no discernible path to freedom, and it was there that Ezio would catch and interrogate him.

Altaïr could see a looming shadow ahead. He grimaced and began glancing to either side, hoping there was somewhere else that he could escape. Seeing no alternative, he continued running and fearlessly leapt from the surface of the roof, instantly regretting the move after he was unable to reverse it. He landed in the wide canal below with a powerful splash.

Ezio skidded to a halt at the edge of the roof and looked down. The water bubbled and hissed from the recent impact. When several seconds passed without the man's resurfacing, Ezio began to debate whether he should follow. He reluctantly admitted to himself that the man could be a fellow Assassin, and so he backed up a few steps, then expertly dove off the edge of the roof and plunged into the murky waters of a Venice canal. He spied the man's arm as the rest of him disappeared into a shadow and grasped the gloved fingers in his own. The motion seemed to jerk the man awake, and Ezio found it was quite a struggle to pull both of them to the surface.

Altaïr began coughing almost immediately and found himself flailing wildly in the uncomfortable environment of water threatening to swallow him back into its depths. He found himself being pulled over the edge of something and was soon sprawled out on a flat surface that was rocking violently back and forth. He lay on his stomach and let a series of sharp coughs grip his chest as his body expelled the water.

Ezio steadied the gondola and waited until the man had heaved up a sufficient amount of water to allow air to fill his lungs once again. Once the man's breathing had steadied, Ezio pulled the sword from his belt and placed the tip of the blade beneath the man's chin.

"Parla," Ezio said sharply. "Chi è lei?"

Altaïr wanted to glare at the strangely dressed man, but instead he allowed complete confusion to show on his face. He assumed the question had been about his name, so he opened his mouth to speak, coughing up another few drops of water in the process. "Altaïr," he said with a gravelly tone, "and I do not speak this tongue." From such a low angle, Altaïr was able to easily see the man's face. He was certainly young, but there was a harshness to his features that Altaïr recognized quickly. This was the face of a man who had seen something terrible in his few years on earth.

Ezio mulled over the words for a moment before returning the sword to its place on the side of his waist. "I am Ezio Auditore da Firenze," he said proudly, letting a little more flair slip into his tongue than was necessary. "What are you doing here?"

Altaïr was about to answer, but he heard running footsteps. Ezio wasted no time and took the cape off of his shoulder, throwing it unceremoniously over Altaïr's form. "Don't move," he growled under his breath. He grabbed the oar and pushed the gondola away from the dock, casually turning his back to the guards in the process, and slowly rowed down the canal. He even began to whistle an old, familiar tune, hoping it would be discreet enough to keep from attracting the guards' attention. The narrow boat rounded a corner with agonizing slowness, and the guards finally disappeared from view. Ezio picked up his cape and reattached it to his shoulder.

"Let's go."

Still recovering from his fight with the water, Altaïr found it much more difficult to follow Ezio up the walls and nearly lost his footing on the slippery surface more than once, but they finally reached the safety of the rooftops and were able to breathe sighs of relief.

Altaïr had come to the conclusion that he was no longer in Masyaf, let alone anywhere within a decently-sized radius. The buildings looked different. The people wore strange clothing. The sun glowed differently through the much more humid air. Even the air tasted different on his tongue, weak and watery compared to the sharp dryness of the atmosphere he was accustomed to. He took to the shade of a clock tower protruding through the roof and simply stood, thinking.

"I believe you have some things to explain," Ezio said, also merging with the shadowed space and studying Altaïr curiously. When the man did not respond to his words, he bent slightly closer and met Altaïr's eyes. "Assassino?"

"What place is this?" Altaïr asked roughly. His English was not as strong as he thought.

"Venice," Ezio said, frowning in confusion. "Italy."

Altaïr blinked. He had heard of the city, at least, but he had never expected it to look so colorful, and he certainly had never planned to travel to it. Ezio clapped him on the shoulder.

"It is alright, my friend," he said warmly. "We will return to Florence by nightfall. It is a finer city than any other in the world."

"What year is it?" Altaïr asked, eyeing Ezio warily. Ezio returned the look with incredulity.

"1486, of course."

Altaïr could only stare at him, swimming in the impossibility of it all. Nearly three hundred years had passed in less than a second, and he was in a different country, albeit one that still had Assassins running around. Ezio noted his grim expression and sighed.

"We should speak to my friend, Leonardo," he said. Despite the shock overwhelming his head at the moment, Altaïr was coherent enough to know that the way words seemed to roll out of Ezio's mouth was beginning to heavily annoy him. "Perhaps he will know what has happened to you."


	3. Chapter 3

Altaïr found it strangely relieving when he learned that horses were still the common mode of transportation. The two animals that Ezio chose for their journey to Florence seemed to be of a reasonably decent temperament. They liked Altaïr enough, at least. He found that they followed him whenever he was on foot. He would never let it be known, but Altaïr found the company of animals much more pleasant than that of humans. They never spoke a word against him. They were silent and observant at all times.

He thought Ezio could learn a lot from them.

"…and my father, he was Lorenzo's personal Assassin. You see, Lorenzo is a Medici, part of a very old family, and he has many enemies…"

_Stay your blade_, Altaïr thought to himself. _If only this boy would learn to stay his tongue._

Night fell upon the land before they reached Florence. Altaïr felt himself beginning to tire already, and it seemed unusual. His mind grew full of an uncomfortable haze as they left the horses behind and continued on foot. He was not of the right mindset for climbing unfamiliar buildings and scouting out the new city, but Ezio insisted that it was the fastest way to reach their destination, and so Altaïr followed him up the nearest wall using a series of handholds and soon found himself standing on the roof.

"You did well in Venezia," Ezio said with a sly smirk, "but let's see how you handle my Firenze."

With that, Ezio turned his back on Altaïr and dashed away across the rooftops. Altaïr growled under his breath as he chased after the man. He was hardly in the mood for games, and Ezio's incessant pride for his heritage was almost as annoying as his accent. More than once, Altaïr had to slow his pace in order to conquer the unusual obstacles in his way. He managed to catch up to Ezio soon enough, cleverly concealing his relief once they returned to the streets.

"Leonardo's workshop is in Venice now," Ezio said, prompting from Altaïr an immediate urge to punch someone. Ezio did nothing to hide his laughter at the other man's expression. "Do not worry. He has returned to Florence for a few days. Something about picking up a few old paintings; I don't know." He pounded on the door with one fist and opened it without waiting for a reply. "Leonardo?"

"Ezio!" another man cried. Altaïr heard the sounds of things being thrown aside and crashing to the floor. "Sorry. How are you? Why have you followed me to Venice?"

Ezio laughed and walked inside, motioning for Altaïr to follow. The other Assassin stepped through the doorway hesitantly. He was unsure if he could stand to hear the sounds of two of them speaking at once. Ezio's tone changed from friendly to grim. "Something very strange has happened." He waved a hand at Altaïr. "This man is an Assassin…I think."

Altaïr nodded. "My name is Altaïr."

Leonardo's eyes went wide. "Are you of relation to the man who wrote the codex?"

He frowned. "I have done no such thing."

"Hm…" Leonardo thought for a moment before having a sudden realization. "But where are my manners? I am Leonardo da Vinci."

"What were we supposed to gain from traveling here?" he abruptly asked Ezio.

"Leonardo is a genius," Ezio answered, still with that note of pride in his voice. He clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Perhaps if you would explain how you arrived here-"

"If only I knew," Altaïr snapped. "I was on a mission, trying to kill a traitor. Just before my blade met his heart, everything…changed." The cold confidence in Altaïr's tone fizzled away into uncertainty.

"Where are you from?" Leonardo asked, hoping to break the strange silence that had fallen between them.

"Masyaf," Altaïr said. He was quiet for a second. "And it was 1191 when I left."

The air went silent again. Altaïr studied the faces of the two men with curious expressions standing before him. Leonardo's eyes had a spark of genius within, however muddled through the confused look on his face. His gaze traveled quickly over Ezio's arrogant features, but it soon froze on a tiny snip of white near the man's lip.

"How did you get this?" Altaïr asked suspiciously, motioning towards the scar.

"It is not important," Ezio answered. Altaïr felt the sound of hurt pride in his tone and made a note to bring it up again if ever he wished for the man to fall silent through a method other than a blade. "You cannot possibly be so old, my friend. Unless you have discovered a fountain of youth."

"I have told you before. I do not know how I came here."

"What happened to your hand?" Leonardo asked suddenly, shining eyes trained on Altaïr's left hand. The assassin raised his hand to eye level to study it, wondering what the man was talking about for only a moment.

"It is the mark of an Assassin," he said plainly, referring to the sizeable gap between his middle and pinky fingers. He flicked his wrist to allow the hidden blade to appear, watching as it gleamed in the wavering firelight. "A small sacrifice, and one we all must make."

"Really?" Ezio questioned, raising one eyebrow and smirking. He jerked both wrists so that his hidden blades sprang into view and opened his arms, wiggling his fingers behind the twin knives. "In that case, it seems I should be missing two fingers."

Altaïr could do very little to calm the fire of fury that had begun to burn inside of him. It was one thing to be dragged across cities and rooftops by an arrogant boy, but it was another entirely to be mocked by one of a lesser status than he. The idea that he had lost his finger for nothing did not even cross his mind; it was the idea that Ezio was flouting all Assassin decorum, defying every rule laid down by centuries of tradition, that insulted him the most. In a flash, Altaïr was behind him, restraining both of his arms with one hand and holding the hidden blade to his throat.

"You are no Assassin, boy," Altaïr growled. "Do not forget this."

"I think everyone should calm down," Leonardo said nervously, putting his hands together so that his fingertips met. Altaïr released Ezio and grudgingly returned the blade to its hiding place, but the cutting glare he gave the man was almost as intimidating. "It doesn't really matter how you got here, Altaïr. You're here now, and it must be for a reason."

"What makes you think so, Leonardo?" Ezio asked, still eyeing the other Assassin warily. "It could be an accident. Or perhaps he is a madman."

Altaïr could hear the words, but he was no longer listening. He had retreated to a shadowed corner of the shop and was lying down on the floor. He was asleep within minutes, exhausted from the bizarre day's events and silently hoping that he would wake up to find it all a nightmare.

"Something is not right about him," Ezio muttered quietly, glancing over at Altaïr from time to time. "His story is impossible, for one thing."

"I suppose anything is possible," Leonardo said with a shrug. He turned away from Ezio and bent over his desk, collecting several scattered papers and sorting them into various piles. "Perhaps things will make better sense in the morning."

Considering his friend's words to signal the end of the conversation, Ezio found a place to sleep as well, though he did not slip into unconsciousness without a final glance at Altaïr's unmoving form. He decided that the man could not be fully trusted.

Footsteps near his head woke Ezio hours later. He opened his eyes and sat up halfway before realizing that he was not in any immediate danger and that it had only been his reflexes to wake him up. Once his head cleared, he realized that Altaïr was walking. The other Assassin seemed not to have noticed his movements and silently slipped through a window. Ezio wasted no time and moved to follow him, wondering what he might be up to.

It was not long before Altaïr found himself sitting on an eagle's perch on a high tower once again. Despite his intense fatigue, he could not sleep soundly for more than a few minutes at a time. His mind swam with thoughts of many things, of how he might return to his own time, if at all. He wanted to question whether he had even truly left the year 1191, but things looked so different that it was becoming more difficult not to accept that he had skipped three hundred years of time. He closed his eyes and breathed a deep sigh, letting cool night air curl into his lungs.

"Enjoying the evening?" Ezio's voice called from the roof, breaking and crumbling Altaïr's momentary serenity.

"I was." He crept off of the perch and stepped onto the roof, standing to his full height. He did not quite tower over Ezio, but with the moon backlighting his movements, he certainly seemed to. "Why have you followed me?"

"I don't trust you," Ezio said plainly. "This tale you tell…of traveling through time. I do not believe it."

"I know not what else to tell you," Altaïr answered. He looked back out at the city again. "I would like to be left alone."

Ezio was unsure of how he would keep from throwing Altaïr off of the tower himself. "You never told me anything about your family," he said.

"And you told me all about yours." The distaste was obvious in his words. He suddenly turned back to stare Ezio down with a look of untamed fury in his eyes. "If you would like to see tomorrow, leave."

"I don't take orders from you," Ezio said. He pulled his sword from its sheath and held it in Altaïr's direction. "In fact, I have had just about enough of you. We should settle this now."

Altaïr just stared at him. He honestly expected to defeat a Master Assassin in combat when he could not even be counted among their ranks as a Novice? "As you wish."

It took all of five seconds for Altaïr to disarm Ezio and throw the sword off of the roof. It clanged and clattered against the walls of a narrow alleyway as it fell to the ground below. Ezio was at a loss for words as he saw the faintest trace of a smirk work its way onto Altaïr's face.

"Will you leave me alone now?"

* * *

_A/N: I've played both games now, hence the slowness of this update. Consider this my Christmas gift to you. Also, I hate author's notes, so there won't be any more of these unless something goes catastrophically awry._

_Also also, did anyone else notice that the Assassins' symbol is a staple remover?_


	4. Chapter 4

Altaïr awoke the next morning to find that he had only been asleep for a few hours after leaving the dumbfounded Ezio on top of a tower and returning to Leonardo's workshop alone. He felt tired and dizzy despite the sleep he had had, and he knew it was most likely because his body still thought it should be sunset instead of sunrise, but the knowledge did not make the feeling any less distasteful. His senses were becoming dulled by the endless cycle of waking up at odd hours, and he inwardly groaned when he realized just how short a time it had been. Not even a full day had passed since his arrival, but already it felt like an eternity.

His ears caught the sound of heavy footsteps on the floor. He didn't have to turn around to know that it was Ezio approaching; the man had an easily recognizable gait, and his friend Leonardo did not wear such loud shoes. He wondered again how Ezio could call himself an Assassin when he made such grievous errors.

"Come with me," Ezio called as he started towards the door.

"Why? Where are you going?" Altaïr asked. He didn't like the small smirk Ezio gave him in return.

"We need to get you some new clothes."

Altaïr followed him with suspicion ever present in his mind. He was thankful that the sun had only just risen, but he found it strange that only a few people were awake and roaming around. He was accustomed to seeing the city begin its life just before dawn and continue until the firelight was not strong enough to ward off the darkness of night. He spotted a few armed guards lingering in front of a doorway and instinctively ran through his mental inventory of his weapons. Ten throwing knives. The sword on his left side. The short fighting knife on his back-

There was a sudden sense of lightness where the knife had once been. He swung around, expecting to see someone running off with it, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Ahead of him, Ezio was fighting back laughter. He turned towards the man with intense aggravation only to see the handle of the knife firmly in Ezio's grip. Ezio gleefully pulled his shoulder cape over his arm to hide the blade from view as he tucked it into his belt. Altaïr's face flashed with fury.

"You should learn to pay more attention," Ezio said proudly before continuing along the street.

"Why did you do that?" Altair hissed.

"You seem to think I am not as skilled an Assassin as you," he answered.

"This only makes you a thief." He snatched the knife back from Ezio and tucked it safely away.

"Hey! You cannot have weapons here!" a nearby guard cried, pulling a sword on the two of them. Distracted as he had been by his anger at Ezio, Altaïr realized a moment too late that he had let down his defenses in order to direct his frustrations at the other man. The guard did not get a chance to attack, however, because both of Ezio's hidden blades were soon embedded in his lungs. To any nearby, it looked as if Ezio was simply pushing the man gently away. The guard stumbled back a few steps, blood strangling his screams, and he collapsed in a seated heap on a bench between two people. Ezio motioned for Altaïr to follow him, and they quickly left the scene of the sudden murder.

At least, they planned to.

A short man in a blue feathered cap ran up to them, toting an aging mandolin and a wide smile. Altaïr eyed him warily, while Ezio looked annoyed. The man put his fingers to the strings and began to play, singing a lighthearted tune at the same time.

"Wondrous deeds he has performed for the good of all, come to pay the evil ones, come to watch them fall…"

Altaïr's eyes widened when he realized that the words were about them, or at least Ezio. Glancing around, he noticed that several people were beginning to take notice of the song, including several guards. He snapped the hidden blade into place and moved to take care of the man, but Ezio placed a hand on his wrist to restrain him. Wearing a subversive smile and with a plan glinting in his hidden eyes, he reached into a small leather pouch and retrieved a handful of coins, then tossed them uselessly to the ground. The blue-clad man abandoned the faithful instrument and scrambled to pick up as many of the coins as he could. Ezio just barely managed to pull Altaïr out of the growing crowd of people before they would have become trapped.

Altaïr brushed himself off and immediately began walking away.

"What? Don't I even get a thank you for helping?" Ezio asked indignantly, following after him with a brisk pace. Altaïr did not answer, for it would mean accepting that he had erred in the situation. Instead, he increased his stride, stopping only when Ezio caught up to him enough to place a hand on his shoulder.

"What?" he growled.

"You are going the wrong way," Ezio said innocently, motioning in the direction that they should have been traveling. The scowl he received as a response was momentarily unsettling. He had never been looked at so directly before. He turned away to avoid appearing weakened by Altaïr's gaze and continued his trek down the street. "It is not much farther."

Altaïr was no longer listening to anything Ezio was saying. If Ezio hadn't stolen his blade, he never would have attracted the attention of the guard, and that unnecessary display of charity could have been avoided altogether. If anything, he wished he had been able to simply kill the musician and be done with it. As it were, he and Ezio were walking away from a scene of pure chaos. People were shoving each other out of the way for the loose coins as if they were the last scraps of gold in the world. Altaïr gazed upon them with nothing short of disgust. They were no better than the stray dogs that wandered the streets of Jerusalem, whining for a few crumbs and nibbling on the rotted fingers of those struck down by plague and poverty. He was glad he did not have to be counted among them, flying the rooftops above as opposed to crawling along the cluttered streets below. He could hardly wait to be rid of the mongrels and return to the peace and sanctity of the rooftops.

"Ah, here we are," Ezio said finally. They had arrived at a small shop with bolts of colorful cloth lining the shelves.

Altaïr studied the interior of the shop with a wary eye. Such frivolities as varyingly colored clothes were only available to the richest citizens of the cities he had visited. He watched from a distance as Ezio spoke a few words in that other language – Italian, was it? – to the man behind the counter, who quickly hurried to a back room. He began to put the pieces together in his mind. Ezio's arrogantly relaxed pace. His willingness to throw handfuls of gold to the ground. The look of smug pride in his eyes whenever they passed a beggar or another stricken by poverty. He had most likely implied so as he had regaled to Altaïr the details of what had befallen his family, but his appearance and mannerisms explained the fact much more clearly than any spoken sentences.

He was wealthy. A noble, judging by his looks. Altaïr was glad he was finally able to pinpoint the reason for his intense dislike of the man. He had killed many rich men in his time, and the act always brought with it a certain satisfaction. He did not consider himself an advocate of the poor; rather, he had noticed that there existed a greater evil on the upper end of society than on the lower end. He wondered if any other Assassins of this time lived as prosperously as Ezio. The idea disgusted him.

"I was having a second set of robes made," Ezio said, still letting the words roll off of his tongue, "just in case. They should fit you."

Altaïr realized grudgingly that he was not much taller than Ezio. His brain tried rapidly to find a reason that Ezio could be wrong, but by the time he was prepared to speak, the other Assassin had placed a bundle of black fabric in his arms.

"You are lucky," Ezio said. "I almost had them dyed purple."

They returned to the workshop, where Altaïr reluctantly changed into the new robes. They fit much less comfortably and the fabric was of a strange texture, but he knew it would be the only decent way to blend in and decided to put up with it, at least for the moment.

"An improvement already," Ezio said as Altaïr began replacing his weapons in their proper positions. "When we return to Venice, you will blend in much better."

Altaïr grimaced at the thought of going back to the half-drowned city. Ezio caught the expression and gave him a questioning look.

"Are you afraid of water?"

"I do not believe it is any of your business," Altaïr said gruffly.

"Ah, so you are," Ezio continued, sounding intrigued. "Tell me what happened."

He was silent.

"Fell in and nearly drowned as a child, perhaps?" Ezio offered, relishing every moment of the other man's clearly pained silence. "Or maybe you just skipped your swimming lessons-"

A square punch to the jaw sent him sprawling to the floor, letting his body slam into the wood with a hollow echo. Altaïr flexed his four fingers.

"The ocean claimed the life of a friend," he said simply. Ezio pulled himself to his feet and looked him in the eye. He looked much older, Altaïr noticed, when his tongue was not betraying his immaturity. He appeared to be holding back a comment of some sort. He flipped his shoulder cape over his arm to hide the sword at his waist and stalked out the door.

They rode toward Venice at what Altaïr considered a surprisingly fast pace. He believed Ezio was still reeling from the impact on his face, and he was certainly still fuming about the fact that Altaïr had once again bested him unexpectedly. Still, Altaïr believed it pointless to force the horses to suffer on account of Ezio's uncontrollable rage. It was not long before he could hear the familiar sound of labored breathing from the horse combined with a general slowing of hoof beats. He allowed the creature to walk, watching as Ezio galloped on ahead. Let the boy run, Altaïr thought. He could find his own way.

Ezio was trotting back to him just a few moments later.

"What are you doing?" Ezio asked sourly while Altaïr dismounted and walked alongside the horse.

"You will run them dead before we make it halfway there," he said plainly. He stopped and watched quietly as the horse nibbled on a few threads of grass and a splash of yellow flowers lining the dusty road. Ezio snorted in distaste.

"We are going to Forli first, idiota," he spat. "It is much closer. They will live."

"You go," Altaïr answered. He refused to give the hotheaded boy even a glance for the sake of refusing him attention. He heard a second displeasured sound from Ezio's direction, followed by a loud cry that urged the horse into a gallop. Altaïr's horse looked up from the ground expectantly, perking its ears toward its disappearing companion. It neighed mournfully. i_"Fear not, my friend,"/i_ he said in his native language, patting the horse's neck. i_"We will rejoin him soon enough. Unfortunately."/i_

The town of Forli did not appeal to Altaïr from the moment he spotted it on the horizon. The sky had turned a chilled, leaden gray overhead, and he knew it meant rain. Cold gusts of air easily weaved trails through the thinner fabric of his new clothing. It occurred to him how much he wished things were normal. He was not quite homesick as much as he was simply sick of it all.

He left the horse in the care of a stable boy at the gate and walked hesitantly inside. His first observation was that the town reeked, and more so than Venice at that. He did not care to pinpoint the precise reason for the stench, but he suspected it was a combination of rotting food and rotten people. Weaving his way through the crowd, he found Ezio soon enough. He could not understand the white-lettered sign on the front of the building, but judging from the attire of the women standing before it, he assumed he knew what it was. Ezio had just disappeared inside when he approached. He rolled his eyes and chose to leave immediately. There was nothing there that appealed to him.

Two of the girls ran up to him, motioning towards him and speaking in that rapid-fire tongue he was beginning to detest. Clad in pale pinks and blues like summer flowers and with hair teased to resemble cats' ears, they appeared harmless enough, but he wanted nothing of their kind. He politely shoved them out of his way and continued walking. One of them began to shout curses at him, but a single glance silenced her. They shrunk back towards their building, careful to leave him alone, and he noticed that they were warning others around them to do the same. Altaïr found a bench nearby and sat down to wait.


	5. Chapter 5

Lucy didn't like the look on Dr. Vidic's face. His abnormally pointed features always had a look of anger and resentment about them; she had grown accustomed to it once she realized that bringing him coffee and a donut in the morning did nothing to ease the steel of his constantly negative expression. The simple and unusual problem, however, was that he was smiling.

"You're late, Ms. Stillman," he said with the same sour tone, hardly sweetened by his features.

She sighed. "I was speaking with tech support," she answered. "They still haven't found the source of the virus."

"I should think it obvious." He paused to search his pockets for his access pen. "It's those Assassins, of course." He threw up his hands. "Damn, lost it again. What's the password this week?"

"'Arthur,' like King Arthur," said Lucy. Vidic crossed the room to type it into his computer without a note of thanks. "Are you sure it's them?"

"Who else would it be?"

Lucy was silently thankful that he was momentarily unhappy. Aside from the fact that anything good for him meant destruction for the Assassins, that mysterious, too-even smile on his face was starting to get unsettling. It returned moments later when he had finished checking his emails and returned to her side at the control panel of the Animus. The maliciousness of it all had spread throughout his entire expression. She forced herself to return her gaze to Desmond's unmoving form.

"We should get him out of there," she noted quietly.

"No," Vidic said sternly. "Not until we know how it's affected him. This could've erased his memories, for all we know."

"I don't think they've been erased…" Lucy's voice trailed off as she sorted through a few files on the computer. She pulled up a stream of video feed from Desmond's latest session and studied it carefully, pausing it when the camera turned to look another man in the eyes. "There," she said, placing a finger on the screen. "That's his ancestor, isn't it? So why aren't we watching it through _his_ eyes?"

Vidic shrugged. "Who cares? Just send him back to the Crusades. We can't afford to get the data mixed up."

"It's a little late for that." She stopped typing when she realized what she had said. Vidic looked at her expectantly, suspiciously. "I mean…I think it's already happened," she continued slowly. "He was living Altaïr's life, right? What if…"

"What if Altaïr is now in the Renaissance."

The smile resurfaced, wider this time, showing off polished, over-whitened teeth. It made his hair seem a heavier leaden gray in comparison. "This is very interesting."

"It's dangerous," Lucy said quickly. Vidic glanced at her again. She mentally yelled at herself to keep control of the situation. "His memories…they could be tainted. Everything is going wrong. We have to get him out and start over-"

"Now, now, Ms. Stillman," said Vidic, cutting her off with a wave of his wrinkled hand, "there's no need to get excited. Just think of this as a sort of…" He grinned like a wolf. "…experiment."

* * *

Altaïr felt his agitation growing with each passing second. Why Ezio had chosen to waste their time in such a town was beyond him. He was anxious to leave, and his fingers were becoming restless from a lack of murder. He was an Assassin, after all. He was trained to kill, not to sit idly by waiting for someone outside a whorehouse.

If he thought it would make any difference, he would scold Ezio for his many outlandish practices. He knew how his acquaintance would respond, though; a well-placed nod to show that he might be listening, a scattering of apologies without trying to justify anything, and he would be on his way, returning again to his old ways. Altaïr would do much the same.

There was still some hidden fact about Ezio that provoked Altaïr's mind. He folded his hands, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees while he thought. A chain of familiarity ran through his appearance, his actions and mannerisms, but Altaïr could not quite decipher it. He would have to study the man further before deciding what else was so strange about him.

"I have learned what I needed to know," Ezio said as he approached. "We can continue to Venezia."

"What was so important that we needed to come here?" Altaïr questioned.

"Caterina Sforza had information about my next target." Ezio never broke stride or sentence as he swiped gold from nearly every person they passed. Altaïr grabbed his wrist and twisted it, threatening to break it with a cold glare in his eyes.

"I stand corrected," he growled, speaking low so only Ezio could hear. "You are lower than a thief."

Ezio jerked his hand away. "Don't tell me you've never taken anything," he snapped.

"Only from pickpockets," Altaïr said, "and only what was necessary. You have gold enough to feed everyone in this town."

"Information does not come without a price. I had to-"

"You should have been _discreet_ about it!" Altaïr's words stung Ezio more than if he had been slapped in the face. It felt like the reprimand of a parent, and he had heard enough of it.

"Who are you to tell me such things?" he asked hotly. "You are not my father."

"Perhaps you would not be so insolent if I were." Altaïr looked at him with a single eye. The statement had hit a chord with both of them. He knew of Ezio's odd devotion to his family, and he had been hoping that the words would leave a mark on the man, but something about it resounded in the back of his own mind. Curiosity rather than anger passed through his gaze.

"Let's go," Ezio said emotionlessly, passing Altaïr with a rough brush against his shoulder that could not have been unintentional. Altaïr became more certain of this when, for a brief moment, he felt fingers grasping at the empty space where his wallet would have been, had he been foolish enough to carry one so openly. He thought about breaking Ezio's wrist for real, but when he caught the look of dark surprise wavering across the man's face after realizing he had acquired no money from his fellow Assassin, Altaïr decided against causing a scene and slowly made for the entrance of the town, becoming no more conspicuous than anyone else in the crowd. If anything, it was Ezio's outfit of flour white with splashes of tomato red that stood out the most. Altaïr saw no scholars wandering the city in their typical groups and simply wondered.

As they trotted along the path to Venice, a breeze swept over them, coupled with a sudden rush of shadows over the land, and the sharp scent of rain filled the air. Both Ezio and Altaïr raised their eyes aloft when they heard thunder rumble through the heavy clouds now hiding the sun from view, and moments later it began to sprinkle.

"We should run," Ezio called back over his shoulder. Altaïr grudgingly agreed and urged the horse into a smooth canter, but he soon had to tell it to gallop once he saw the blurring gray of Ezio's mount begin to distance itself from him. Glancing up at the sky a second time, he saw that they were running directly into the heart of the storm, and he grimaced. He hoped Venice would not be too far away.

Ezio suddenly veered off of the already narrow path and kicked his horse forward onto a slope covered with dangerously loose rocks that slipped away under the animal's feet. Altaïr could see no reason for the man's brash actions, but he followed nonetheless.

"We are being followed!" Ezio shouted through the driving rain, answering his unspoken question. Altaïr glanced back and saw a band of black horses moving more slowly but with clear determination after them. He knew there were too many to fight and silently admitted that perhaps trying to escape was the better option. Ezio's method, however, was putting them both in danger. Sharp rocks were being kicked back at him from such a high angle that they seemed to be falling from the sky. The driving rain blurred his vision and stung the multitude of cuts appearing on his face. He raised an arm to block the tree branches from smacking him in the face and finally decided to let the horse determine their path, knowing the animal had a better sense for navigating the treacherous trail.

"What do they want?" Altaïr yelled.

"The Sforzas have many enemies," Ezio answered, taking a sudden, sharp turn.

Altaïr heard a shower of pebbles ricochet off of a few tree trunks behind them, one narrowly missing his head. "And you started a fight with them."

"I will explain later. Follow me; I have an idea."

Altaïr pulled the horse to an abrupt stop when he saw that Ezio had halted. There was a large pile of rocks precariously balanced on the edge of a cliff wall. Altaïr studied the steep drop straight down to the path they had traveled on earlier. He heard a rumble of hoof beats louder than the thunder of the storm and saw a group of their followers rapidly approaching. He soon understood Ezio's plan.

"Hurry, before the others catch up to us!" Ezio cried. He pulled his sword from its sheath and jammed it into a space between the rocks, trying to loosen them enough that they would tumble down onto the pathway below. Altaïr leapt from his horse as well and mimicked Ezio's actions. The pouring rain turned the ground into slippery mud beneath their feet, but it also made moving the rocks easier. A few smaller ones started to fall at first, then the other boulders quickly followed with a tumultuous roar. Altaïr glanced down in time to catch a glimpse of the shocked expressions on their pursuers' faces as they desperately tried to stop their horses, but all was quickly obscured by a cloud of murky dust that even the rain could not mitigate.

Both of them turned around at the sound of several swords being drawn. They were surrounded by a half ring of five black horses with heavily armed riders. Ezio and Altaïr silently stepped slightly closer to each other, each sizing up the group of enemies and deciding what to do.

"And what was the point of that, exactly?" Altaïr asked flatly. "They have caught us anyway."

Ezio smirked. "I was trying to even the odds."

He picked up a handful of rocks and flung it at the nearest horse's legs. It neighed in pain and reared up suddenly, dancing on its hind legs and flailing wildly with the front. The others became frantic and reacted in much the same way, managing to abandon three of their riders on the ground while they darted back down the path. Altaïr leapt forward and swiftly dispatched of one, while Ezio took care of the other two with both of his hidden blades. The final two riders, having witnessed the deaths of several of their comrades firsthand, turned their horses around and galloped away. Altaïr did not even have time to relish the silence following a successful kill; Ezio was soon mounted on his horse again and took off down the path without waiting for him.

With the usual trail now blocked by the pile of boulders, Altaïr and Ezio had to take a long, winding pathway around the site of the destruction. They turned a corner at a slow canter, and Altaïr narrowly missed plowing into Ezio's horse, which had come to a dead stop.

"What is it?" Altaïr asked, now breathless from all the running. Ezio merely lifted his eyes to the top of the walls running along either side of the path. Altaïr froze. "Do you have a plan to even _these_ odds?"

Soldiers stood in thick rows on the edges of the cliff, staring down at the two Assassins and awaiting their orders. Another group of men blocked the path in front of them. A single man stepped forward, clothed in black and with a hood blocking the view of his face.

"You should have been more careful, Auditore," the man said with an accent unfamiliar to Altaïr. Ezio cringed. "To attack a member of my family in broad daylight. I would not have expected such a bold move from you."

"You do not expect many things, Borgia," Ezio spat. "I assume you were not expecting to die today."

Borgia laughed, a deep, gravelly sound that immediately set Altaïr on edge. "Today, I will not be the one to die. But you will." He motioned to the soldiers standing behind him. "Get them!"

It happened very quickly. The soldiers closed in around them like the mouth of a great black animal. Ezio fought back a few of them, then tried to run, but the rain had transformed the ground into soggy mud. He lost his footing on the slippery surface, and his head collided with the toe of a dead soldier's boot with such force that it knocked him unconscious. Altaïr defended himself as much as possible, but it wasn't long before the soldiers' sheer numbers outmatched him and brought him to his knees, weaponless and exhausted. Borgia stepped forward and used the tip of a sword to lift and remove Altaïr's hood.

"Your face is unfamiliar to me," Borgia said with complete disinterest. He raised one large eyebrow. "However…you do fight reasonably well. Perhaps I could convince you to join my fight."

Altaïr winced as fresh rainwater stung the bleeding cuts on his face. He could already tell that he did not like this man, even separating the fact that he was clearly against the Assassins. Altaïr saw a small pin of a stylized red cross on the man's robes and instantly had his answer. "I would sooner die than serve the Templars."

A swift kick to the back of his head sent him sprawling forward. His mind swirled as he lapsed into unconsciousness. "Then you shall have your wish."


	6. Chapter 6

When Altaïr woke up, he was in chains.

He could see nothing. There were no shades of black in the room to tell him anything about where he might be. Heavy metal links weighed down his hands. When he finally managed to pull himself up so that he was kneeling, he felt the lack of a hood on his head and found he could not stand before the chains yanked him back.

"Do not bother, my friend," Ezio said from somewhere nearby. "We have both been chained."

"Where are we?" Altaïr asked, feeling gravel in his tone.

"Somewhere underground, I think," the other Assassin answered. Altaïr heard the rattle of shifting chains as Ezio moved around. "I do not see how we can escape."

Altaïr did not answer. Instead, he had rearranged himself into a more comfortable seated position, and he was resting his hands on his knees. He closed his eyes, although the darkness made it unnecessary, and focused.

"And how is meditation going to help?" Ezio asked.

Altaïr refused to let it disrupt his concentration. He soon felt the familiar release of mind, and he opened his eyes. He had a perfectly clear view of the room. It was small, just spacious enough to hold him and Ezio apart. He saw the place where the chains connected to the floor. They were poorly nailed to a wooden block. He thought he might be able to loosen the chains and crawled over to the block. Ezio's form was glowing blue in the darkness, but only to Altaïr's eyes, providing an unseen light to guide his way.

"What are you doing?"

"You should learn to silence your tongue," Altaïr said sharply, flicking his hidden blade into place. He chipped away at the chunk of wood until the chain came free.

"It is a simple question," Ezio said. Altaïr heard chains sliding across the floor towards him and looked down to see two empty restraints, then glanced up to see Ezio massaging his newly freed wrists one at a time. "After all, it is not as if it would be useful to be carrying these things around when we make our escape."

Altaïr felt anger boiling within him again, and everything soon went dark once his previous serenity was lost. His frustration only grew when he realized that he could no longer see what he was doing, so when Ezio took his hands and unlocked each restraint with one of his hidden blades, it took a great deal of control to keep from assassinating the man.

"There is a window up there. I believe we can escape through it."

"Do you know where we are?" Altaïr asked.

"We cannot have been taken far," Ezio answered. He set to climbing the wall, leaping from one protruding brick to the next with ease. Altaïr's eyes had adjusted to the darkness just enough to see Ezio's black form moving up to the window. He felt he had little choice but to follow. Ezio hauled himself up to the sill of the window and carefully perched on it, looking out at something Altaïr could not see since he was still clinging to the wall a few feet below.

"Can you see anything?"

"There are a few guards. I can dispose of them easily enough. Then we can find a way out."

"What about the man who did this to us?" Altaïr said with a thinly veiled snarl. "Borgia, you said."

"I cannot kill him yet," Ezio insisted. "I have to kill the Templars beneath him first."

"There could hundreds of those," Altaïr replied, "or thousands. Why not deal with him while we are here, when he is likely close?"

Ezio was silent for a few seconds. "Murder sends a message," he said simply. With that, he leapt silently down from the window and took care of the two guards standing directly below. Altaïr nimbly jumped after him in time to embed a blade in the neck of one of their attackers, almost enjoying the satisfying squelching sound the short knife made as it pierced the flesh like meat. He reached for his sword, half expecting it to be missing, but he was pleased when his hand met its hilt. It felt good to be destroying enemies and making use of his skills. It was perhaps not as public and challenging as he would have liked, but there was still a certain satisfaction to it. Ezio began to run off, but Altaïr remained where he was.

"Come, we must go," Ezio said, careful not to raise his tone too high. "Quickly."

"I have a plan."

Soon, the two Assassins were calmly progressing toward the exit, both of them dressed in the clothing of the dead guards. A flicker of firelight in a nearby room caught Altaïr's attention, and he started to walk towards it, but Ezio took his shoulder and stopped him.

"We must leave," he quietly insisted. Altaïr reluctantly followed once again.

He surprised himself with how relieved he was that he felt fresh, cool night air on his face once they emerged from the tunnels. He glanced up briefly as a gliding eagle eclipsed the moon, moving like a piece of night across the stars. After studying the sky momentarily, Ezio determined that they were not far from Venice. They resumed their regular attire and made their way to the city.

"You seem hesitant to kill this man," Altaïr said finally, unsure of a better way to dissolve the silence between them.

"I must remove his followers first," Ezio answered. "It will weaken him."

"You had a chance to destroy him when he could not have been any more vulnerable," Altaïr noted, "and yet you did not seize it."

"What would you know about my plans?" Ezio snapped, "Or any sort of plan, for that matter? You would sooner break every tenet of our creed by killing innocent people!"

Altaïr ran forward a few steps to catch up with him and looked him squarely in the eyes. "At least I do not hide behind my lineage."

The fire was clear in Ezio's voice. "What lineage do you have to speak of at all?" he shot back. "My family is-"

"Your family is dead!" Altaïr was shouting now. "You cannot be so proud of a thing that has been destroyed!" His voice suddenly went cold. "You claim yourself an Assassin, Ezio, yet you have not been trained to rely only on yourself." He could see the outer wall of Venice by now and decided he would reach it on his own. He began walking, leaving Ezio standing where he was.

"You were taken from your parents when you were very young."

Altaïr stopped.

"This is what happened, yes?" Ezio continued, slowly stepping towards him. "You lost them somehow. Either they were killed, or you were taken away."

"What would you know of my past?" Altaïr asked, inwardly hoping it was too quiet for Ezio to hear. "I cared not for the strangers that barely raised me."

"You must care for someone, then." Ezio was standing just behind him, speaking past his shoulder. "Now imagine if you had to watch them die."

Altaïr turned around to face him properly. "Save your tricks," he said. "I will not sympathize with you."

"It was merely a question, my friend."

They returned to Venice in silence. Altaïr vanished once they were over the city walls, dashing across unfamiliar rooftops bathed in moon and shadows, letting the world blindly wash over him in a way he hadn't done in a long time. It was like meditating while moving, running, letting his body glide freely and fluidly over a multitude of surfaces like the shadow of an eagle while his mind wandered. The night was cold and clear, and the stars looked down on him like chips of glass. He soon found himself perched on top of a church's bell tower, breathless and gasping for air, inhaling the chilled breezes with such force that they stung like shards of glass in his chest and grew in his lungs like icy twin trees. He remained stolid and silent as a magnificent white eagle landed soundlessly beside him, studying him through curious dark eyes.

* * *

Desmond awoke with a flash.

At first, he could only see white. He thought it was the ceiling, but it was too pure, too perfect to be that, not to mention that it was glowing. As the light started to recede just a little, he realized he was looking at the figure of a bird. His mind came rushing back to him. Altaïr had been running, moving with the ease of the wind over the world, twisting and turning and flying without wings. And then he had stopped, and he was looking at a bird.

He found it curious that the bird's beak and talons gleamed gold, mingling with the blinding white of its feathers. Its eyes were two spots of black, shining like pebbles against the field of snow on which they rested, watching him in much the same way that he was watching them. He could hear nothing except his own breathing.

"Who are you?" The words escaped from his mouth before his mind could stop them, and he realized instantaneously that it must have seemed a stupid thing to say, talking to a bird as if it were human. The better question was what was he doing there, why had he been pulled out of the memory with Altaïr so suddenly, or what should he do now, but he felt they should at least get acquainted.

Naturally, the bird said nothing. It inclined its head toward him, and it looked to him like it wanted to be petted. He stretched a hand toward it, unsure of what it would do. He nearly closed his eyes, not wanting to watch it bite him, if that was truly what its reaction would be, but his fingers landed on the filmy, airy feathers, and he smiled. He wondered if the bird was smiling, too.

"I'm Desmond."

The bird's head flicked downwards for a moment, indicating a nod. Did it know that already?

"Who are you?" he repeated. It suddenly opened its beak and clamped it down his fingers, and he withdrew his hand, feeling tiny teeth-like ridges graze his skin. "Ow!" He grimaced to see droplets of blood slowly growing through the stark white lines crossing his hand, like water being squeezed through a sponge. He cradled it with his other hand. "Fine, I get it. You don't want to tell me who you are."

There was a tingling sensation in his fingers that was beginning to crawl up his arm. He flexed the fingers cautiously and looked back up at the bird, but it was gone. He felt dizzy and held a hand against his head as his entire arm went numb. He decided wryly that it was a good thing he was already near the ground, because he fell backwards with no hope of catching himself, and as his world went black with a stinging pain in his head and in his arm, he realized he had never woken up at all.

* * *

Altaïr blinked. The mysterious eagle had vanished before his eyes, and he would have thought it a trick of the moonlight if it were not for a handful of gleaming feathers resting placidly next to him where the creature had once been. He picked them up and studied them for a moment before placing them in a pouch on his belt, wondering if Ezio had even heard of the tradition of painting a feather with an enemy's blood. He decided he would not be surprised to learn that Ezio had never shown another man such respect, even in death.

He saw a glint of light from not far away. It was only for a moment, but it caught his attention. He knew the form of the man darting away from him and moving through the darkness with an ease similar to his own. He rose to his feet and began the chase, wondering who it was that Ezio wanted to kill this time and why he had let a stray moonbeam dancing on the blade of his knife give him away. He had much to learn.

Altaïr stopped running when he saw the other Assassin dive off of the roof and heard the telltale splash below. He looked over the edge and watched as Ezio climbed up onto a nearby boat, then proceeded to search beneath its covering and withdrew a handful of shining gold coins. Altaïr merely sighed and leapt across the gap between two buildings to follow Ezio's as he returned to the warmth of the canal waters. Altaïr occasionally lost sight of him beneath the slowly rolling waves, and his task was made more difficult when the canal emptied into a much larger area with several merchant ships. He climbed down to street level and melded with the shadows, carefully scanning the water for any sign of unnatural movement.

Ezio's face breached the surface momentarily as he refilled his lungs, then he disappeared again, but Altaïr knew what to look for now and could more easily make his way along the shoreline to follow the other man's path. A few moments after Ezio disappeared behind a ship, Altaïr heard the barely perceptible sound of something being lifted out of the water. He spotted three men standing on the ship's deck and climbed up the side of a building to get a better view of them. They were dressed very similarly; all of them appeared to be guards. He frowned. Even one such as Ezio would not waste time dispatching of guards unless it was necessary. He closed his eyes, silently meditating on the subject, and when he looked again, he recognized the gleaming gold hue surrounding the man on the far right, separate from the blood red auras of his companions.

The man bathed in golden light reached for his chest as a blade pierced it, then let out a muffled, gurgling half-scream as he was hauled over the side of the ship and vanished with a splash into the water below. Altaïr left the scene. It was not long before Ezio met him on the rooftops once again.

"How did you know which one to kill?" he asked immediately, knowing Ezio instantly understood that he had been followed and watched during the entire ordeal. He smirked as if he had planned that part of it.

"It was the one in gold," he answered simply. Altaïr did not reply.


	7. Chapter 7

"Where is your friend, Ezio?" Leonardo called as Ezio entered the small shop. The Assassin shook his head.

"He vanished last night," Ezio answered. "I have not seen him since. He probably returned home." His expression turned sour. "And it is just as well."

"Oh," Leonardo said regretfully. "I was hoping he would be here. I need to tell both of you- aha!" he exclaimed suddenly. "Speaking of il diavolo."

Altaïr closed the door behind himself. "What were you going to say?" he asked.

Leonardo's face took on a grave expression. "I think two of you are related."

There was silence. Ezio was the first one to burst out laughing. "I admit, I almost believed you for a moment, my friend," he said between gasps of air. He finally sighed, managing to calm down enough to speak normally again. "That is very funny."

Altaïr was only staring at him. Beyond the slightly less angular contours of Ezio's face he could sense that familiarity again. He thought carefully about everything Ezio said. His father, at least, had been an Assassin for certain, even if he did little to correctly carry on the legacy. Then there was the matter of his eagle vision.

"It is not a joke," Leonardo responded curtly. "You look similar. You walk the same. You both have the sight that allows you to see people's true intentions." His face was entirely serious. He waved a hand in their direction. "Please, stop me if I say something untrue."

Altaïr and Ezio turned to look at each other. The only thought in Altaïr's mind was that he did not wish for someone such as Ezio to be related to him.

"There is something else." Leonardo turned away from them and went back to a table covered in assorted papers. He retrieved a rolled up scroll and brought it to Altaïr. "Read it."

Altaïr obliged and opened the scroll. His eyes flicked over the text with such ease that at first he did not realize he knew the language and the encryption pattern so well.

_Nothing is true. Everything is permitted. Does our creed provide the answer, then? That one may be two things – opposite in every way – simultaneously? And why not? Am I not proof? We of noble intentions, possessed of barbaric means? We who celebrate the sanctity of life and then promptly take it from those we deem our enemies?_

"What is this?" he said quietly as shock worked its way into his heart. The writer's tone was astoundingly similar to his own.

"A page of the Codex," Leonardo answered. "I believe you wrote it."

"I already told you," Altaïr said, finally glancing up from the scroll, "I have done no such thing."

"Perhaps not yet, but it will happen. As long as you can return to your own time, of course," said Leonardo. "Other pages speak of a prophet and a Vault." He met Ezio's disbelieving gaze. "I believe this refers to you."

"You are speaking nonsense, Leonardo." Ezio's voice was as fiery as ever, but Altaïr could hear a hint of uncertainty in his words. "None of this is possible."

"Nothing is true," Altaïr murmured, more to himself than Ezio, "and everything is permitted." He thought for a moment, then rolled up the scroll and gave it back to Leonardo. He turned and walked toward the door.

* * *

Desmond's world fizzed blue and gray. He didn't want to open his eyes and find that he wasn't really awake again. Strangely enough, though, he could see the outline of the glass visor that always covered his eyes when he was in the Animus. He simply lay still and tried to figure out what was going on.

"The glitches are getting worse," Lucy called from nearby. A blue glow passed around the edge of his vision, following the sound of her voice. "We need to take him out and reset the system or we'll lose everything we've collected so far."

"And risk losing the chance to see how Assassins act through the ages?" Vidic asked. "Of course not! He stays where he is."

"If he dies, I don't think it'll make much of a difference. The machine isn't measuring his vitals anymore. We won't know how he's doing at all." Desmond felt a pair of fingers press into his neck, just under his chin. The blue glow returned to the edge of his vision, despite the fact that his eyes remained closed. He felt overheated, but he wasn't sure if he should alert Vidic and Lucy to the fact that he was awake. Lucy let out a grim sigh. "His heart rate's way above normal."

"He'll be fine," Vidic said loosely. His arm momentarily brushed through Desmond's field of vision, lighting up red in front of his closed eyes. "Come on, get the Animus running again. I want a better look at that Codex page…"

Desmond heard the familiar whirring of computer parts as the Animus started up again. He decided he didn't want to go back just yet and opened his eyes, but by the time he did, the usual haze of sparkling pixels had whisked his mind away already.

The scene seemed to have rewound a little. Altaïr was still holding the scroll, and a faint echo ran through the room as if he had just spoken. His eyes flashed for a moment, and a flurry of red lines ran across the scroll. He couldn't completely make sense of it, but he recognized part of the Assassins' symbol near a corner of it. Right when he noticed it, the scene began to flicker before his eyes. Flashes of the white ceiling of Abstergo mingled with the dark, fire-lit room in Venice, almost having a strobe effect on him. Between the seemingly pasted-together images, Desmond could see the outline of the white bird again; this time it was flying directly at him. Snatches of conversation from both scenes fought for dominance in his ears.

"-is he going?"

"I don't-"

"-s happening?"

"The system is crash-"

"-shouldn't be so-"

"Desmond!"

His eyes finally snapped open, wider than he thought possible. His mind went silent almost too suddenly, leaving faint traces of sound swirling through his head. He tried to sit up too quickly, and his forehead slammed into the Animus's visor, splitting it cleanly down the center. He saw Lucy looking straight down at him as he fell back, and his head collided painfully with the metal surface of the Animus. He was shaking too much to sigh in frustration, though it was what he wanted to do.

"What's going on?" he asked. The visor finally rolled away, making an unpleasant crunching noise once it met the part where he had damaged it. Lucy put a hand behind his shoulders and helped him sit up.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

Desmond thought better than to shake his head. "I feel horrible…what _was_ that? Everything was mixed up."

"It's no use," Vidic said from his place at the Animus's control panel. "I can't fix it." His tone grew angrier by the second. "This could set us back days! Even weeks!"

"Don't worry about him," Lucy said flatly, lowering her voice so only Desmond could hear. "You really need some rest."

"I'm not moving until someone tells me what I saw," Desmond said firmly, going against everything his brain and body were screaming at him. "What were those lines on the paper? And that bird?" His voice went quieter suddenly. "Why could I see things with my eyes closed?"

Lucy blinked, confused by his final question. She shook her head. "Come on. Sleep and food. Now."

"It was a map, Mr. Miles," Vidic said abruptly. "Unfortunately, you didn't let us see it long enough to make any solid conclusions about it, and now that this contraption is destroyed-" He paused long enough to give the machine a sound kick. The force resounded through its metal body, like he had hit a gong. "-we may never figure it out."

"He'll calm down once tech support looks at it," Lucy said, though she sounded unconvinced. She led Desmond to his room. "Don't mention the eagle, alright?"

"Why not? I want to know what it is," Desmond said indignantly, folding his arms. "And why it bit me," he added, looking at the place on his hand. There were no cuts or scars like he had expected, but the vision had been strange all the same.

"I can't explain it to you now, but I will. Eventually," said Lucy. "Promise."

Desmond let out a heavy sigh. "Yeah. Eventually." He slipped through the automatic door and lay down on the bed, not bothering to kick his shoes off. He thought wryly about all the times he had seen people pass out drunk with one or both shoes on and all the things their friends had done to them.

'You're past that life now,' he thought to himself as his mind dipped in and out of the welcome respite of sleep. 'Get used to it.'

His dreams that night were as confused and disjointed as the scenes in the Animus. The event kept replaying itself over and over, always from the same perspective and always telling him nothing. He finally awoke a few hours later, feeling no more rested than he had before attempting to sleep. All the while he could only think of the bird. It didn't look like any bird he had ever seen. He blindly felt one hand with the other, looking for the invisible trailing scars the bird's beak had left on his skin. He wasn't sure if he had only imagined it, or possibly dreamed it.

Desmond climbed out of bed and half-stumbled into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face and hopefully clear his head. He wasn't exactly expecting to crash into Lucy.

"Shh," she said, clamping a hand over his mouth when he started to speak while holding a finger to her lips. "Don't say anything." Her voice was so much quieter than a whisper that at first he almost couldn't hear her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, unable to keep his tone equally hushed. He couldn't even find the energy for one of his usual wisecracks.

"I wanted to talk to you," she answered, "and this is the only place with no cameras."

"How the hell did you get in?" Desmond wondered aloud. Lucy's eyes went up to the ceiling, and he followed her gaze to the broad air conditioning vent that was now hanging by a single screw.

"Took care of that earlier while you were in the Animus," she said. She brought her gaze back to him. "The bird you saw…what did it look like?"

"It was white," said Desmond. "Its beak was gold. It looked sorta like an eagle-"

"Not just an eagle, Desmond," said Lucy. "A harpy eagle."

"A what?" he asked blankly. If it hadn't been for the near total darkness, he would've sworn she had rolled her eyes at him.

"A harpy eagle. _Harpia harpyja._ That's what we named the virus."

"'We?' Who's we?"

Lucy glanced over her shoulder, more out of habit than necessity. "The Assassins. I installed the virus in the Animus so it would slow down Vidic's research and give us time to free you." She allowed herself a smile. "I ran it through his computer, so if they ever do track down the source, he'll have some explaining to do."

Desmond's eyes were huge. "You're an Assassin? Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Do you really think it's safe enough for me to do that?" she asked, hoping the answer was obvious. He didn't respond. "Anyway, it wasn't supposed to actually take the form of a bird, but I'm not the one who wrote the code, so…"

"Why did it bite me?" Desmond almost felt stupid voicing the question aloud, having asked himself the same thing many times before, but he did want to know.

"I have no idea." Lucy suddenly jumped forward and wrapped her arms around him. "I'm really glad you're alright, Desmond," she said, possibly even quieter than before. "I was worried about you."

"I'm fine."

She gave him a quick smile before climbing back up through the vent. "Put this thing back together, will you?" she called, motioning to the vent covering with her foot. She vanished down the dark tunnel seconds later.

Desmond found it much easier to sleep, having one part of the mystery cleared up. The next morning, Lucy came to wake him up, as opposed to Vidic.

"Hey, sleepyhead," she called. "I know you think you should get to sleep in today, but there are still a few things we need to talk to you about." She nudged his shoulder.

He reacted instantly, snapping out of unconsciousness to wrap his fingers tightly around her wrist. He started to bend it in a painful direction, but her reflexes went into motion too soon. She twisted around, managing to tear him from his place and hurtle him halfway across the room with a powerful sweeping motion that nearly wrenched her arm from its socket. He tried to catch himself and land on his feet, but he fell back and landed in a heap. Lucy assumed a defensive position, cautious about what was happening, but infinitely more confused.

"What's going on, Desmond?" she asked warily, eyeing his every move. He glared at her with a coldness she had never seen on his features before.

"My name is Altaïr."


	8. Chapter 8

Lucy remained completely still, watching Desmond carefully. Her eyes flicked to the sliding door for a second. It was about halfway between them. If she could move fast enough…

She didn't have to. The door slid open, allowing Dr. Vidic to enter. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he looked as professional as ever. Lucy couldn't take the risk of dropping her defenses when Desmond was in such a state.

"What's going on in here, Ms. Stillman?" he asked gruffly. "I told you to bring Mr. Miles back to the Animus almost five minutes ago."

"There's a problem," she started. "Desmond-"

"I am not Desmond," Desmond said, still using that darker, older voice he had spoken with moments ago. "I am Altaïr."

Vidic looked intensely displeased. He lifted his watch to his face and spoke into it. "Security needed on level four."

Desmond darted forward and knocked Vidic down as alarm bells began to ring all around the room, accompanied by flashing red lights. Lucy ran after him.

'This is too soon,' she thought. 'God, I wish their timing were better…'

"What is this?" Desmond demanded of Lucy.

"There's no time," she said quickly as a thunderous rumble sounded through the building, rocking the floor beneath her feet. She leapt forward and grabbed Desmond's wrist. He jerked it away from her in the same moment. She felt herself getting frustrated. "I'm an Assassin," she said in as low a tone as she could. "I'm trying to help you."

He studied her for a moment with unnaturally cruel eyes, then seemed to relax his stance a little. Another explosive sound rattled the building. Lucy ran out of the room and took off down the hallway with Desmond close behind her. She was about to turn a corner when he gripped her shoulder and pulled her backwards, flattening both of them against the wall.

"What are you doing?" she whispered loudly. Desmond closed his eyes, taking a deep, sharp breath. Red flashes of light bloomed behind his eyelids, reforming into the shapes of people running along the corridor. They held perfectly still as a group of armed men ran past them. Lucy barely had time to release her held breath before Desmond took her wrist and pulled her along a different path.

"How did you-"

"Shh," Desmond said abruptly. Lucy glanced back and saw an opening along the wall, a hallway they had run past. She silently led Desmond towards it. It meant taking a longer path to reach their destination, but she was willing to take that risk if it meant not being captured by the Templars.

They moved along a series of hallways and elevators. Desmond would stop every now and then to close his eyes and listen. Sometimes they would keep going, and sometimes he would signal for her to stop and move back to a hiding place. The last elevator they took dropped them in the parking garage. A white truck was parked in front of a very large hole blown in the side of the building. Lucy ran over to help the two Assassins quickly being overtaken by a flood of Abstergo soldiers, and Desmond followed.

"Lucy! Where the hell have you been?" the girl called. She slammed her foot into the back of a black-clad soldier's head and knocked him unconscious. "We've been waiting for you."

"We got a little tied up," Lucy answered as she disposed of another soldier. Desmond fought silently in the background. Lucy glanced at him just in time to see him make the motion of stabbing his enemy with a hidden blade, but he looked down in blank surprise to see that he had no weapon. The soldier grasped his wrist, but Desmond twisted and flipped the man over so he was flat on the ground, then brought his heel down on the man's neck with a muffled crunch.

"Yes, well-" the other Assassin began, though he was cut off by a soldier's fist colliding with his jaw. Lucy tripped the soldier and kicked him out of the way. "At least you're here now," he finished, holding a hand to his bleeding mouth. "Grab Desmond so we can go."

"Desmond!" Lucy called. He showed no sign of a response, so she jogged over and grabbed his shoulder. He spun around and nearly attacked her, but his wild eyes softened when he realized she wasn't a direct threat. "We have to go."

He wordlessly followed her back to the truck and climbed inside after her. The other girl pulled the metal door closed, and the vehicle took off, quickly slamming Desmond into the side. Lucy took a seat on the floor, and once he righted himself, he did the same. It was dark except for a narrow window on the metal wall opposite the door that let a few shafts of light stream in from outside.

"Someone explain this to me," he said, restraining the confused anger brewing within his heart. "Now," he added. He hadn't realized how little his voice would carry in the bouncing, careening truck that seemed entirely unfamiliar to him.

"What's to explain? We busted you out," the other girl said with a smug smile. "You oughta be thanking us."

"Something's wrong, Rebecca," Lucy said grimly, never taking her eyes from Desmond's face. He still looked the same; that much was clear. But his entire demeanor had changed from that of the grudgingly obedient Desmond she knew to one of someone much colder, much more calculative. Someone like Altaïr. He coldly glared back, distrustful of her still. "I think it's the Bleeding Effect, but…different."

"What do you mean?" Rebecca questioned. She reached into a purple bag and pulled out a thin laptop, opening it and precariously balancing it on her lap. Lucy eyed Desmond nervously before speaking again.

"He thinks he's Altaïr."

He shot her a look. "I am Altaïr. Why do you continue to say otherwise?"

"Well, if it is the Bleeding Effect, at least he's picked up the Animus's language translator along the way," Rebecca said with a shrug.

"You aren't at all concerned?" Lucy asked, astonished.

"It should pass soon enough. We'll make sure to keep him out of the Animus for a week or so."

"Where am I?" Desmond asked suddenly.

"Italy," Rebecca answered. "Our hideout's across the border in Switzerland, though. We have a bit of a drive ahead of us. Hope you brought a book."

"Where is Malik?"

Lucy and Rebecca were both silent. Desmond looked helplessly at them, already having studied his surroundings enough to realize that there was no way of looking outside.

"I must speak with him. Or that Leonardo; he might know what has happened."

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're trying to be Altaïr? I think you're getting your Assassins mixed up."

"It's not funny," Lucy hissed sharply. The truck made a sudden turn and catapulted Desmond to the other side of the truck so he was lying in a heap a few feet away from Lucy. She saw the sense of bewilderment in his eyes and knew he could not be pretending. "Listen to me, Desm-"

"Altaïr," he said harshly, almost desperately, like he was struggling to believe it. She sighed. It was a sort of a good sign

"Altaïr. Do you know who I am?"

He shook his head.

"My name's Lucy. This is Rebecca, and the guy driving is Shaun. We're Assassins. Those people back there were Templars."

"Where is my blade?" he asked, seemingly oblivious to every word she was saying. He looked down at his hand in absolute amazement. It occurred to Lucy that the real Altaïr was missing his left ring finger. She cringed inwardly as she realized what effect that had to be having on him.

"Right here," Rebecca said. She pulled a mass of leather and metal out of her bag and lobbed it at Desmond, who caught it with ease and slipped it comfortably over his arm, fumbling with the bulky sleeve of his white sweatshirt. He flicked his wrist to extend the blade, shocked when it didn't slice his finger off in the process.

"What have you done to it?" he asked with a mix of awe and disbelief.

"We've made a few modifications since your time," Lucy said slowly. His eyes flicked to her left hand, where he saw all five of her fingers intact. He let out a low growl. It appeared that Ezio's strange new way of living as an Assassin had infected everyone around him.

"You would not be the first."

Lucy's and Rebecca's attempts to further interrogate him fell on inattentive ears. Desmond – rather, Altaïr – was looking deep inside his mind and trying desperately to sort through all of the conflicting ideas and memories he found. He had never felt so out of touch with his own thoughts before. The idea that he was not actually himself set a deep level of fear into his heart.

He didn't realize he had fallen asleep until his eyes suddenly opened to complete darkness. He saw a row of small, flickering green lights from Rebecca's computer, but that was all, and they were hardly enough to illuminate anything. The truck was still rattling down the road, but it seemed to be going slower than it had before. He wondered where they were.

Something stirred against his chest. He realized Lucy was using him as a pillow, and he wasn't completely sure what to make of it. It was more than mildly uncomfortable, but he didn't feel like waking her up, either. Something told him to remain entirely still, possibly even to meditate as a means of relaxation, and that was precisely what he did. He did not go back to sleep, but his mind managed to grow calm enough for him to rest a little. His mind grew so disconnected from his body that when the truck finally stopped and Rebecca stood to raise the metal door with a loud rattle, it shocked him back into consciousness. His body snapped into a fighting position, and he inadvertently tossed Lucy aside. She muttered something under her breath before her eyes flashed open and she saw that they had arrived.

Rebecca gathered up her computer and hopped out of the truck with the energy and look of a sprite. Lucy climbed down after her, wondering how she could have so much spunk after such a trip. Desmond was still silent as he walked after them. Even his shoes made no sound on the pavement. He looked down and studied it like he had never seen it before. It occurred to Lucy that Altaïr probably never had.

"You should get some sleep," she said, though she cut herself off mid-thought with a wide yawn. "I'll explain everything tomorrow."

Desmond grabbed her wrist. Lucy looked at him with a mix of curiosity and fear. It didn't seem like he was going to hurt her, unlike when she had first awakened him at Abstergo earlier that day, but she knew he was perfectly capable of it. "I would prefer that you tell me now," he said simply. His words carried an indiscernible weight, and Lucy sighed.

"You're not really Altaïr," she began. He gave her a quizzical frown. The expression was almost humorous on his face, but she was careful not to laugh. "I know it's hard to believe, but look around. Does this really look like Jerusalem? Or Damascus?" She motioned at a sea of lights glittering in the darkness before them. In daylight, he would have seen the city of Bern spread out before him. He shook his head.

"I have been stranger places," he said, thinking of the bizarre collection of buildings and colored fabrics that had been Italy. He didn't see Lucy smile, because it quickly faded away.

"It's not the Crusades anymore," she continued. "It's 2012. About a thousand years later, give or take." He said nothing. "Why do you think you didn't have your hidden blade? Or why you still have your finger?"

He looked down at his hand and flexed his fingers. All of them moved. It could not have been a trick. He felt Lucy's hand on his shoulder.

"Please come back, Desmond. The longer you stay in this state, the more of you we'll lose." She took a deep, slightly wavering breath. "I don't want that to happen."

"Guys, let's go already," Rebecca called from further up the driveway. Lucy started to walk in the direction of her friend's voice. She had only gone five steps when a rush of wind told her Desmond was gone. She kept walking regardless.

"Where'd Desmond run off to?" Shaun asked gruffly.

"I don't know," Lucy admitted, earning shocked looks from both of them. She looked back in the general direction Desmond had gone. "He'll be back."

She hoped so, anyway.

* * *

Yes, I know, I've been a bad author. I don't like to make excuses. I should have updated before now. School blah blah blah all that jazz. All I can say is that I will try to be better in the future. Apologies to all.


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